


Heart of a Stone

by tmelange



Series: Forever the Same [3]
Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Plot-Intensive, Pre-Capes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years after their tumultuous summer in Metropolis, Clark and Bruce meet again in Gotham, under the watchful gaze of Alfred Pennyworth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an installment in a series called **Forever the Same.** It follows the story _Pas de Deux._ You'd likely need to read that story and its predecessor _For Ever Nearer Yet_ before you'd completely understand this story.
> 
> This story is basically DCU, however, it assumes a _Smallville_ -esque background for Lex Luthor that is a continuation of prior stories in the series.

**Prelude**

 _Sometime in the distant future…on the grounds of Wayne Manor…in Gotham City…_

"Dad, so what do you think? If the League offers to mediate, will the president go for it?"

His father didn't bother to look up from his book, and with the sunglasses hiding blue eyes, he couldn't even tell if he'd gotten as much as a sidelong glance in acknowledgment. He really thought the Wayne patriarch was taking this retirement thing a bit too far. It was a feat if anyone could get him away from poolside these days, especially when the afternoon was mid-summer hot and the sky crystal clear, and the water so blue and perfect.

"I think you're the League chairman," came a rumble of a voice with a small shrug of one tan, sweat-glistened shoulder. "You've been trained by the best. Trust your instincts. Make a decision."

"Trust my instincts. Make a decision. The freedom and safety of the known world is at stake and…that's all you'll say?"

His incredulous tone garnered more of a response—though not exactly the one he was hoping to provoke. A tilt of the head, an eyebrow that rose past the frame of his father's expensive sunglasses. Mild reproach that stung, not because it was meant in a hurtful way but because his dad's opinion of him was so very important, and his shoes were so impossible to fill.

"This is what you asked for, son. We agreed that me looking over your shoulder would be counterproductive. I believe those were your exact words." A small smile to soften the reproach, lit by the sun. The glint off of the golden ring that was never discussed, the one he recognized from Justice League archive material as a Legion of Super-Heroes flight ring from the 31st century—though he had never seen his father use it to fly.

"You're The Batman of Gotham now. You're everything I ever was and more." He watched as his father's attention clearly shifted to a spot in the distance over his shoulder, and knew this conversation had effectively come to an end. "You don't need my opinion."

He turned. Saw the figure approaching from the main house, through the back entrance that had been reserved, in the past, for the exclusive use of the household staff. A mostly nude Superman, sun rays throwing themselves at him in adoration, bouncing off, clinging to his skin, was enough to distract anyone, and his father was no exception.

"Hey, dad," he said to his other parent, getting to his feet as his father placed two glasses of iced tea on the side table, then leaned in, ruffled his hair and kissed his temple.

"Don't offer to mediate," his father said, resting hands on his shoulders. "Maneuver the situation so President Santiago asks the League to step in—and then agree only reluctantly. Perception is something you'll have to manage constantly, and there's a thin line between the League being considered a help or an intrusion in civilian affairs. Besides, if you offer the League's help too freely, they'll come running to you with every problem big and small—and that's not something you want to encourage." He watched as his father glanced over at his partner, smiling. "Everyone has to learn to stand and solve problems without intervening aid from up above."

He gave his father a hug. "Thanks, dad. I guess I was just worried…"

"Don't be. You've been trained by the best—"

"That's what I said," came a grumble from behind a book, "but, of course, he wasn't trying to hear _me."_

"I heard you, dad." He leaned over the lounge chair and kissed his father on the cheek, eliciting a grunt and a finger to straighten sunglasses. "That I was trained by the very best goes without saying. And we agreed that you would step back, not that I couldn't ask you for advice. I would be remiss if I didn't use every resource—you taught me that."

"Good boy."

"You could ask your brother for advice—"

 _That_ was not happening. "He's somewhere in Asia. I don't know if he plans to come back at all. And if I ask for his help, I'll never hear the end of it—"

A sigh from the man who was, in fact, the person his brother most resembled temperamentally. Consternation and a book abandoned in a lap. "We raised you to support each other. You're a team—"

"I know. It's just—a little harder in practice, now that we all have our own things going on. If I was in any real trouble, I'd go to him."

From one parent: "Your family is the only thing you can truly trust, son."

And the other: "Family is everything."

His father stepped around him and settled in the matching lounge chair with a contented sigh. Looking down at his parents, he marveled—not for the first time—at how similar they looked, how like a pair of shoes they've become over the years, especially since the retirement. The biggest difference between them used to be skin tone, with his cowled parent tending towards the pale skin that was a by-product of a work schedule heavily skewed to the nighttime hours. But now that his parents spent most of their days lounging by the pool, or out riding the grounds, or on vacation…somewhere or another, they were both bronzed and blue-eyed, dark-haired and perfectly athletic. It was only the line of the jaw that would allow a stranger to tell them apart from a distance. He knew this was one of the reasons their whole family looked so remarkably similar—his brothers, his sister. It was the running joke of the superhero community: that none of them were legitimate offspring; they were all just advanced Fortress robots so that there'd always be a Superman guarding Metropolis and a Batman guarding Gotham.

"Okay, let me get out of here. I have a date—"

"You shouldn't have time for _dates."_

"Like you never went out _once_ in thirty years."

"Only for show, to maintain my image—"

"That's not what dad says—"

"Your father lies. They think he doesn't but he does—like a rug."

"Just go and have a good time, son. Don't mind him. Every free moment he was chasing me around, trying to get me to go out with him. For three whole months he followed me around like a puppy. Don't let him tell you any different. When do you think we'll get to meet her…?"

He laughed out loud at that one. "No time soon, dad. I'd prefer to know she wants _me_ before I let her meet the two of _you."_ A lesson he'd learned the hard way. His parents looked not a day over thirty-five—neither of them—but that wasn't the problem. The Waynes were a good–looking family, and he knew he could hold his own with the best of them. No, his parents were icons, demigods, like two graven images, and even if a person wasn't privy to their secret identities, they were too fascinating, the experience of being in their presence too intense. It became harder and harder to turn away.

"I won't be home for dinner, but I'll check in before patrol. You'll be here?"

A nod and a wave, and then he started for the house, shaking his head at the conversation kicking up behind him, listening to it with his heightened hearing even as he made his way inside the kitchen and up to his bedroom to change clothes. He couldn't help it, though he knew it was a hard rule that the "youngsters" weren't allowed to eavesdrop on their parents, for any reason. The running banter between the two was the soundtrack of his life, and with all of the changes taking place lately, with his parents agreeing to hang up the costumes and allow the next generation to take over, it was reassuring that some things would never change.

"You baby him, Clark."

"He needed a little advice, Bruce. You could have set his mind at ease."

"I could have, but what will he do when we're not around?"

"Fortunately, we've taken care of that."

A noncommittal grunt. "Each time we come back we run the risk—"

"We've discussed this. Not if we come back to the exact same moment. The Legion—"

"Knows this for a fact. So they claim. But you know I like to be prepared. I want _him_ to be prepared—all of them. One day, we might have to choose, and as much as I love our life here, there would be no _choice."_

He tuned the rest of the conversation out, feeling incredibly guilty for the accidental confidence he had breached, because he was his father's son, and now that he knew something he had suspected—that this retirement was too easy, and there was something weird about his parents lounging about in any case—he had to ferret out the whole truth. They've had interaction with the Legion, and have been time traveling, and even these small pieces of information explained a lot. And the talk of choices—well, it had always been clear to his brothers and sister that for all the talk of _family,_ their parent's devotion was singular, insular, too intense for any outsider to share, even their own children. Every child wants to be the center of his parent's universe, but his siblings had to learn to accept—each in his or her own way—that the center of the universe for each parent was the other, and everyone else was a satellite. A well-loved satellite, but still.

Choices, potential disappearances—an investigation was in order. This time, he'd unearth the whole story. His parents had a habit of secrecy, of revealing only the necessary bits, of parceling out history, especially personal history, on a need to know basis. But if they were preparing for a true shift to the younger generation, where either of them could become unavailable for a long period of time, he needed to make his own plans, develop his own sources of information about family matters current and historical.

And he knew exactly who to see to get started, because before the legends, before the crusades, before the masquerades, there were two impetuous young men—and a butler.


	2. Chapter 2

**1—**

 _Today…in Gotham City…_

He hated this city, hated the way the sun beat off the pavement in waves in the late August heat, with no air circulating because the buildings were too close together, making everyone sweaty and miserable. Even though the heat didn't affect him directly, it made the people he had to deal with short-tempered and irritable. At least, that's the only rational explanation he could come up with for the fact that no one seemed able to smile in this city, and not one person had the time or patience to help another with a problem.

Clark Kent set his duffle bag on the sidewalk by a bench just outside the main gates of Gotham University and took a seat. The financial aid office had messed up his paperwork for his fellowship, and he'd had no notification of the problem until just now, when he was trying to complete orientation and get settled. His registration for classes was in danger of being canceled if he didn't come up with the balance of his tuition payment before five p.m., but that wasn't his only problem. He had a little bit of money, a few thousand dollars he could use to pay his tuition, but if he used his money for tuition until his fellowship came through, he couldn't afford to pay for student housing.

A young woman, not watching her step because she was avidly thumb typing on a portable device, tripped over the edge of his duffle. Clark reached out quickly, using his super speed judiciously to stop her from falling. He received a vicious glare for his trouble. The woman pulled her arm out of his grasp as if he had tried to molest her. He sat back down on the wooden bench and sighed, making sure to tuck his bag behind his feet. In the two years since he had completed his training and been released from the Fortress, he had traveled all over the world, trying to get to know his adopted planet as more than just a computer simulation, learning the interpersonal aspect of how best to help when his help was needed. He had to admit, in all his travels, he had never encountered a place quite like Gotham City.

Two years. He was stuck in this city for at least two years. It was a depressing thought, and it made him seriously doubt his decision to pursue this fellowship at all. It wasn't as if he needed—

But no. He had promised himself he would build a life, that the person his parents had raised wouldn't just disappear because he had this new identity, this heritage from a dead world and a people who only existed in the past. He had made a decision to be Clark Kent. He couldn't just give up because he hated Gotham City, and the city seemed to hate him right back.

He would pay his tuition, worry about housing and living expenses afterwards. After all, he could simply fly home to Smallville every evening…

Clark winced. So much for surviving as Clark Kent.

The bank was his next stop. He checked his watch. It was early afternoon, and he had more than enough time to withdraw some money and make it back to campus. Of course, the school didn't trust anyone to pay by check at this late date. He got up, hefted his duffle and briefly considered asking someone for directions. He decided against it almost immediately. The people walked so fast here. Just as he was about to open his mouth, the person was already past him and down the street. It seemed eye contact and greetings were out of the question.

Instead, he picked a direction and started walking. Six blocks later, he saw a gathering of police cars, and a large crowd of people. Officers with bull horns were making announcements, asking the crowd to step back behind a hastily erected police barricade. Two white media vans pulled up with a squeal of tires. Camera crews jumped out and started setting up equipment. Clark angled himself through the crowd, trying to find out what was going on.

It became clear immediately that a bank robbery was in progress. No one would bother speaking to him directly but he caught snatches of conversation, even without his super hearing. The clear target of the bulk of police activity was the National Bank of Gotham, an impressive five-story building with a marble Greco-Roman facade. He was about to try to make his way to the side and front of the crowd, preparing to lend a hand if it became necessary, when he heard the sharp sound of a gunshot inside the building. Obviously, no one else could hear it, but Clark dropped his bag and was inside the bank in two blinks, just in time to place himself between another bullet and its intended target—a man who looked to be in his late thirties, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, with a gunshot wound to the stomach. Clark snatched the gun from the perpetrator, crushed it into scrap and punched the man in the face, knocking him out cold, all in less time than it took to draw two breaths.

The other bank patrons were screaming and cowering together, and the remaining robbers were panicking. One masked man shot off his gun at the ceiling, increasing the hysteria. Quickly, Clark used his super speed to disarm the criminals, gather them all up, and deposit them in an office, welding the door shut with his heat vision.

Then, he was back at the side of the injured man, who, miraculously, was still conscious, though he had lost a lot of blood. He blinked at Clark owlishly with pain-filled eyes as Clark gathered him up, gasped at the rush of wind as Clark sped them to the hospital—which was one of the few places he had marked during his short time in the city. Common sense told him it would be best for the man if he got primary medical attention immediately, and didn't have to wait on the paramedics. His wound was serious. Clark could tell from the thready sound of his vitals that his condition was critical.

When Clark reached the emergency room, carrying his injured charge, covered in blood, he looked down at the person he had just saved as he passed him to the doctors and nurses who were scurrying around him in controlled chaos. The face—it was familiar to him. Older, sure, but Clark's memory was picture perfect.

"I know you," Clark whispered as he released his grip on the man who was now being wheeled into surgery. "Your name is Alfred."


	3. Chapter 3

**2—**

When Alfred Pennyworth opened his eyes, squinting at the bright mid-morning light shining on his face, his first thought was to wonder how he had slept past the morning watering of his garden. The second was to remember, in sharp pain centered at his midsection and vivid flashes of memory, what had happened to him in the bank, and to realize he was in a hospital bed and not in his own suite at Wayne Manor. The third thought stole his breath with a rush of emotion as he noticed the person sitting slumped in the chair at his side, head bowed to chest, dark hair spilled forward, casting his profile in shadow: _getting shot was worth it if it had brought his boy back home to him._

 _"Bruce—"_

The young man in the chair startled awake, and Alfred realized, with a sinking sense of disappointment that turned the edges of his vision a watery gray—it wasn't Bruce Wayne sitting by his bedside but a doppelganger of a sort, a young man so similar in feature and bearing to his longtime charge that one could be mistaken for the other if viewed quickly or from a distance.

The young man got to his feet hurriedly, trying to brush his wrinkled clothing straight.

"No, uh, I'm Clark. Clark Kent."

Then the rest of it, the small details that made no _sense,_ came rushing back.

"You—" Alfred tried licking his lips. They were chapped, his throat coated with sand. He turned his head to the side slowly, looking for water. He noticed the heart monitor, one of the pieces of equipment that was now hooked up to his body, making loud, steady noises in time to his breathing. He was in a private space of stainless steel and unremitting white, and the tall young man at his bedside was the room's only other occupant.

"They said you can't have any water," his visitor explained, reaching over to the side table and a container there, and scooping something into a small cup. "You can only have ice chips."

Carefully, the young man helped him place the ice in his mouth, where the melting shard was a balm to his parched throat. "How long…?" he husked, trying to regain control of his voice.

"Two days. You woke up a couple of times but…you weren't really aware of much."

"You—you saved my life," he said, and watched as the young man flushed and ducked his head.

"Uh, I didn't—"

"I _saw_ you."

His visitor flopped down into the chair with a sigh. "Yeah, about that…"

Another ice chip, another swallow, and the attempt to make words around a too thick tongue. "Kent. Clark Kent from Smallville?"

Now, the young man's look was even more guarded, if that was possible. "I—"

"I remember you. You've grown a little more than a bit."

An apprehensive smile, a hand through his hair.

"You remember?"

"I do. Your parents were very kind during a terribly stressful situation."

"They're like that," Clark mumbled, looking away. Clearly, he was still nervous, and Alfred was sure he knew why.

"Master Bruce came home from Metropolis and said he was in love…with a young man named Clark Kent. That was…the last time I saw him." Alfred closed his eyes. "How very ironic…"

+

Clark paced the length of the small hospital room as Alfred Pennyworth slept, his heart in his throat. Eight million people in one of the largest cities in the world and on his first day in Gotham he managed to entangle himself in the life of the one person he would have wanted to avoid at all costs: Bruce Wayne's guardian. Even now, all he wanted to do was _leave,_ to go back to his own life, forget this ever happened now that Alfred was out of danger, but his conscience wouldn't let him disappear while the man Bruce had referenced as a father figure was so in need of help—

Not when he knew the reason Bruce wasn't at Alfred's bedside was because of what had happened between them so many years ago.

Clark had left the hospital when Alfred had been taken into surgery, expecting never to return. He had tried to retrieve his duffle bag but found, to his chagrin, that in the ten minutes since he had dropped it to go into the bank, it had been stolen. Covered in blood, with nowhere to go and none of his things, he'd had no choice but to fly home to Smallville. His parents were surprised to see him and shocked at his disheveled appearance, but he had only a short amount of time to explain and no time to visit. The press of events had him clenched tightly from the inside, and after a shower and a change of clothing, he sat down at the family computer in the den and did the one thing he had refused to allow himself to do for years.

He did some research on Bruce Wayne.

That was how he found out Bruce hadn't been seen in seven years. Clark was well aware that the young man from Gotham had left the states right after their break-up. Watching Bruce, even from a distance was a habit that took months to break, and even when he had finally started his training in the Fortress in earnest, there had been lapses, small spaces when he had time to himself and could allow his senses to expand, to reach out, searching for the one inimitable heartbeat that was like the pulse of his own life. But eventually, his training had consumed everything, an immeasurable amount of time seemed to pass, years, decades, and as he traversed the dimensions that controlled the science of space and time, he lost all perception of Earth and its people as anything other than an abstract concept.

That was the first four years.

When he emerged from the fourth dimension, into the tesseract that was his Fortress of Solitude for his last year of practical training, Bruce was lost to him. Clark could no longer pinpoint his heartbeat from the billions of others in the world. It was almost as if he had forgotten it entirely, as if some strange melody from his childhood remained forever beyond the reaches of his conscious mind—and it was a relief. He walked out of the Fortress with a clear understanding of his own nature, the special dangers that would impact anyone close to him. He understood his obligations, what his role on his adopted planet was to be, and he knew that feelings lingering from the time _before_ had no place in his new life. He had never tried to find Bruce after he had returned from his journey through inter-dimensional space. Somehow, he had just assumed his old love would have forgotten about him and returned to Gotham.

But, apparently…Bruce had never returned home, had never resumed his life, taken over the family company or gone to law school and become the city's finest attorney. He had never gotten engaged or married, or done any of the things a person of his caliber would likely have done by his mid-twenties. Bruce was missing; he had been missing for seven years.

Through newspaper articles chronicling Alfred's fight to preserve the Wayne legacy with no proof that the heir was still alive, a certain picture became crystal clear: one man, a loyal family servant in the eyes of the public with some tenuous legal status as the guardian of a person who was no longer a minor, but who was, in any case, missing and presumed dead, was the only person standing in the way of the dismantling of a family empire. As Clark read article after article, he realized Alfred was quite clever, and had made his case to the people of Gotham City, using the weight of public sentiment and the love affair the city had with its missing prince to stave off the sharks. After all, what judge would strip the last Wayne of his legacy; strip the city of its lingering hope, even in the face of such a prolonged absence?

Alfred Pennyworth—a British citizen with no family in the United States. Unwavering in his belief that Bruce was alive somewhere, preserving all that was his against the day when the last Wayne scion would return home again. There was simply no way Clark could abandon Alfred, knowing he was the initial cause of Bruce's absence—no matter how much he wanted to.

Clark glanced across the room at the sleeping figure. He didn't know whether he should be relieved or worried that Bruce was still missing. Worried, of course, but the knowledge that he wouldn't have to face the specter of his own mistakes was the only thing that kept him from running, that kept him tethered to the room and the injured man who needed his attention. Nothing had changed. Bruce Wayne was still in his past. A crystalline chasm separated the Clark Kent of today from the person he used to be, the uncontrollable, red Kryptonite-addicted animal that did whatever he wanted and took whatever caught his attention without thought of the consequences during his wild summer with Bruce in Metropolis. He was over all of that—

He was over—

A low groan had Clark by Alfred's bedside in a heartbeat. Eyes fluttered open and locked on his face.

"You are still here."

Clark nodded. "Uh, yeah. I wasn't exactly sure who to call…" He gathered some ice in a cup and settled in the chair by the bed. "How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Do you want me to call the doctor—?"

A hand rose and fell, motioned for the ice. Clark obliged.

"Tell me…how you saved me…"

"I, uh, I was in the bank…"

A swallow. "You were _not_ in the bank. There were only eight hostages—"

"I mean, I got into the bank through a side door—"

"You appeared out of nowhere, young man." Alfred cleared his throat, took another piece of ice. "You placed yourself in front of a bullet intended for me, _and it ricocheted off of you._ Please do not insult my intelligence."

This was exactly the problem with continued involvement with the people he saved. He made it a point to keep his costumed and civilian identities separate. Superman never appeared anywhere that intersected Clark Kent's life. In fact, he saved the costume for extreme happenings, when he knew he'd be observed by large groups of people, or by the press, and couldn't use his super speed to avoid detection—like when he rescued the airplane that was about to crash land with over five hundred people on board, or that time he had helped with the earthquake relief operations in India. The suit was particularly useful when he needed a cloak of anonymity to hide that he was an actual person, and not just some super powered phenomenon. But, really, the vast majority of his interventions took place exactly as it had with Alfred—with an emergency requiring a split second decision, every moment counting, no time for a costume change, his super speed the only thing between rescue and tragedy.

He would intervene and disappear, and even if the person rescued got a glimpse of his face, saw something strange, it was chalked up to the imagination, to the stress of the situation, because the person didn't know Clark Kent, and would never see him again in a context that would breed questions.

Questions. Clark could see them swirling behind intelligent brown eyes. He knew there would be no easy way out of providing some sort of explanation, and his mother had always said he was a terrible liar. Clark tried a dismissive chuckle. "You were in shock. I simply pushed the guy out of the way. He never fired the gun—"

Alfred frowned, and was about to object when the doctor entered the room.

"Mr. Pennyworth, I'm glad to see you're awake. I'm Doctor Carter. I handled your surgery—"

Clark got to his feet. "I'll wait outside—" Maybe this would be a good time for him to escape—

Alfred glanced at him sharply. "Stay."

Clark sank back down into the chair as the doctor detailed Alfred's current condition, wincing when he explained that the only reason Alfred was alive after such a severe injury was he seemed to have arrived at the hospital within minutes of being shot. The short amount of time between injury and surgery allowed him to avoid going into shock and the wound from becoming septic.

The doctor made notes on the clipboard at the foot of the bed. "The police were here earlier, asking questions, as they do with all gunshot wounds," he remarked as he finished. "Your nephew explained you had been shot in the Gotham National bank robbery, but the time you were admitted in the emergency room—it is literally impossible for you to have gotten here that quickly. The police were skeptical, but the other hostages confirmed your presence in the bank. Do you know the person who brought you in?"

Alfred glanced in Clark's direction. "Unfortunately not. The whole episode is hazy at best. It was a man, tall, dark hair, obviously a good Samaritan. Please do let me know if you or the police identify him. I would like to thank him in person."

The doctor nodded, seemingly satisfied at the moment that the mystery had reached a dead end. He spent the next ten minutes explaining to Alfred that he would have a long, difficult road to recovery, and he would have to arrange for at least eight weeks of home care.

"I'm sure my…nephew…will help make all of the arrangements," Alfred agreed. "Thank you, doctor."

"Thank the person who got you here so quickly," Doctor Carter said. "All I did was the repair work." He started towards the door. "Get some rest. We'll be releasing you as soon as we remove the catheter and you can go to the bathroom on your own."

There was silence in the room once they were alone again. Clark was sure Alfred would start in with the questions, and he held his breath in anticipation of the lies he would have to tell, but the man surprised him.

"How is your mother and father, Clark? Good, I hope?"

Clark blinked, but his good manners kicked in and he explained his parents were doing quite well, and the farm was in good order.

"And you are in Gotham City because…?"

"I'm supposed to be attending school, Gotham U, journalism fellowship." Clark sighed. He had missed the registration deadline for paying his tuition, and was sure his classes had been canceled. He would likely have to sit out the semester, and see if he'd be allowed to pick up again in the spring. Besides, even if he had managed to register on time, he had nowhere to live, and Gotham City was terribly expensive. Maybe, it would be better if he went back to Smallville for now. He could make some extra money helping out around town. Or he could travel again. He didn't need much money to travel when he could fly himself anywhere—

With a bit of probing by Alfred, the story of his school situation came out. It was the small, satisfied smile on the man's face that warned Clark of an impending solution to his problems.

"Well, this is a fortuitous bit of luck."

Clark studied the man warily. "What is?"

"Your circumstances, young sir."

"Call me Clark, please—"

"Clark. You need a place to stay, and I happen to be responsible for a cavernous mansion on the outskirts of town—"

Clark shook his head. "No way—no. I couldn't possibly—"

"You would be doing me a favor," Alfred said mildly, British accent sounding so _proper,_ as if everything had already been decided. "I need someone to help me during my convalescence, and if I were to call any of my own family, they would have to make arrangements to cross the pond, a major inconvenience, I can assure you. I could rely on the largess of strangers, but since you have styled yourself my nephew—"

"Just to avoid the questions," Clark mumbled, not liking this situation one bit. He couldn't live in Bruce's house—

"The reasoning is immaterial, young sir—"

"Clark—"

"Yes—Clark. I see the firm hand of fate at play here, and I will not take no for an answer."

Clark got to his feet. He didn't want to be rude but there was no way—

He paced towards the window. "It's too late, anyway," he said, over his shoulder. "I was supposed to pay my tuition two days ago. I know they canceled my classes—"

"A small matter. Pass me the telephone, please."

Clark listened as Alfred placed two phone calls, one to the provost's office at the university and one to the dean for student affairs. In less than thirty minutes, Clark's classes were straightened out and his tuition paid from the Wayne scholarship fund—just until his fellowship paperwork came through, Alfred assured him when Clark objected.

"I can't—"

"You can. You must. In fact, I insist. It is the least I can do for the person who saved my life two times over. And our arrangement—I can count on you to move into the manor and provide what care I need? I will hire a nurse, of course, but it is very important that care by strangers be overseen by a responsible family member, you do understand?"

"Yes, but I'm not—"

An eyebrow went up. "But you have claimed to be, and the appearance is two thirds of the performance."

Clark sank back down into the chair. Alfred was like a force of nature, and he was running out of objections.

"There is no need to worry that your relationship with Master Bruce did not end on good terms," Alfred added, reaching out with a hand and patting his own.

Clark felt his face flush. "To put it mildly."

"Master Bruce has been gone," Alfred paused, frowned, "a long time. Every day I expect him to come walking through the front door, but the reality is that I have no reason to believe he will be home anytime soon—"

"But—"

"But even if he walked through that door tomorrow, I can assure you he would show you nothing but the utmost courtesy as a guest and as the person who saved my life."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Clark mumbled.

"I am. I raised him. He could no more disregard propriety than I could shirk my duty to the Wayne family." Alfred sniffed. "It is inbred."

This was almost as bad as arguing with his mother. Clark had that sinking feeling nothing he could say would change the ultimate outcome of this conversation. "It's not that I don't _want_ to help," he tried, "and it's…beyond great of you to fix my class situation—thank you so much—but my life is complicated. You don't even know me—"

"I know Master Bruce came home from Metropolis a changed person. There was a light in his eyes. He was the happiest I've ever seen him since he was a small child and his parents were alive. He _smiled._ He couldn't stop _smiling._ It was all I had ever wanted for him, and you were responsible."

Clark looked down, remembering the hurt, the disappointment in blue eyes. He—didn't want to do this, didn't want to remember… "I'm also the one who threw it all away."

"That is a story for another time. Once you are ensconced at the manor, you can tell me all about it. I am sure it is quite the tale."

"It's been seven years. Things are different. I'm a different person now."

Alfred smiled. "There is one thing you will have to understand about Master Bruce—I can guarantee you if he were to walk through that door this very minute, his feelings for you would be exactly the same. Of course, life may complicate matters, but those things Bruce makes his own remain his own. He is as obdurate as they come."

"It's not only that," Clark said with a sigh, "I have responsibilities. You don't know who I am—"

"I think it is quite obvious who you are," Alfred said. "You are that brightly clad fellow the media has taken to calling 'Superman'."

Clark drew in breath sharply. "How—?"

"Simply a matter of deductive reasoning. The latest syndicated article by Ms. Lane of the _Daily Planet_ had a thorough synopsis of your known abilities—super speed, strength, flight, indestructibility—all of which you displayed during my rescue. Hence, you are Superman."

And just like that, Alfred answered every objection. Two days later, Clark carried Alfred up the stairs and into Wayne manor, and followed his instructions, settling into the spare bedroom next to Alfred's suite on the first floor. Through it all, Bruce Wayne was everywhere, surrounding him, taunting him with memories, accusations, the ghost of hands and lips, of eyes, believing in him, begging him not to break every promise. It was torturous, but as the days went by and he and Alfred settled into a routine, Clark relaxed. After all of this time, it wasn't as if Bruce was going to walk in at any minute. Besides, Clark had the benefit of his super senses to warn him to disappear before Bruce got anywhere near the house.


End file.
